Wish Into The Abyss
by SignsOfSun
Summary: One Shot. An incident at work has Nick pondering whether he wants to care anymore or not. Like every decision it comes with pros and cons.


Author: Signs Of Sun

Title: Wish Into The Abyss

Genre: One Shot/General/Angst

Characters: Nicky.

Notes: A stand alone fic I whipped out real quick to get it out of my head and figured I had it done I might as well post it somewhere.

Spoilers: None for future episodes, but a very vague references to past seasons.

Summary: An incident at work has Nick facing whether he wants to care anymore. Like every decision it comes with pros and cons.

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_Wish Into The Abyss_

Sometimes I scare the crap out of myself.

Days like today, for example.

It doesn't specifically come from the details this particular day was composed of that make me see it this time round. Or even the unique qualities of any other specific date it has happened on. It's the pattern of _who_ I am on days like today.

What is truly quiver inducing to every last nerve ending in me is that I don't see who I have been on these days until it's too late. It's already history by the time I get those all too brief mental snapshots of myself from the outside in, strung together like a video replay of myself playing inside my head. Instead of the other oblivious and usual way round, seeing yourself from the inside out this rarer one makes you see things you wouldn't other wise notice.

And the truth is I see those objective mirror images of myself less and less with each passing turn of the calendar page it seems. My awareness of their existence is retreating into the far murky reaches of my consciousness. My impaired inner vision has me straining to even make it out in any semblance of clarity. Many times all I accomplish is winding up more blind than where I started out at. Not to mention totally wiped out.

It scares the hell out of me that it'll disintegrate completely. My awareness that this is happening to me, that is. There is invisible terror gripping me in moments like these that one morning I'll simply wake up and it will be gone and I won't even realize it. Then every day will be like today, but I won't remember what the point was to feeling anything different. It'll just be the way life is and I won't be inspired to change it. My awareness of my increasing lack of caring is the only thing holding back the ever expanding abyss of total indifference from consuming me entirely. I sense its massive powerful force looming so closely and I worry, many times frantically, whether or not I have what it takes to keep it at bay.

"C'mon Rick, man, I'm sorry!" I yell out to Warrick's back as he loads field kits and evidence bags into his SUV. The frenzied and reckless manner in which he handles the inanimate objects tells he's furious.

These days don't always end this way. I suppose that's a microscopic fragment of solace. Warrick has proven himself a friend. He deserves better treatment I guess. And in this instant I have to hang my head and pretend to be studying the gravel walkway underneath the soles of my boots. I compliment the motion by adjusting my ball cap further down on my forehead. The fact that the thought that just waltzed through my mind meant I had inventoried the "proof" that Warrick was a friend and deserved better, I am ashamed of myself for. Like I said though, it doesn't always end this way. It doesn't always involve Warrick. Hell sometimes, it doesn't involve another person. Sometimes I can be solo and catch myself three quarters of the way through a callous thought of how unimpressed and unsurprised I am about human behavior. Or I guess it would be the _lack_ of behavior to be more accurate. This friction here and now between Warrick and I is just the form it took this particular day of the calendar year.

"Warrick!" I nearly scream at him when he continues to ignore me after all this time that has passed silently. I've mentally scrubbed away the shame from showing on my face and can look up in time for his response.

"Save it Stokes. Whatever lame excuse you're going to offer this time I don't want to hear it. In case you haven't noticed I'm responsible for this case so I don't have time for your bullshit," he replies, turning to face me only as long as it takes to speak the words. Then he returns to his reckless packing up to return to the lab with what we collected.

It's not that I want this. I don't. Some days it's no problem to not slip out of gear and into neutral. A lot of the time I start out the day reminding myself to keep a watchful eye out for it. And right now it has occurred to me that lately those reminders are long forgotten by dinner break. Sometimes even before I get that far into the day.

I don't want this to be happening to me. I don't want to stop caring. What kind of person would that make me? It's not how I was raised, not what values were drilled into me. I can even hear the imagined echo of Cisco's 'shape up or ship out' speech in my ears now. I'm sure he'd be disappointed that I've let me myself become so desensitized to the plights of others. The plight of others pretty much being a required life's work for anyone bearing the last name, Stokes, in his eyes.

I guess maybe the sum total of the residue of years of this line of work added together with my own very personal and nearly lethal experiences with more than one certifiable lunatic has worn away the exposed softer features such as my now depleted but formerly abundant well of empathy. All that negativity, or is it the unnecessary overreactions, or perhaps just the insanity, must finally have painstakingly bore down past the layer where those values were drilled into the stone foundation of me.

"It didn't come out the way I meant it to," I call out in explanation to Warrick, intensely attentive that the tone I deliver it in makes it a truce offering. I may have even managed a trace of apologetic gentleness in there, but I'm not positive about that. I was only half paying attention. Neither gentleness or apologetic are amongst my fortes or interests as of late.

"The hell it didn't!" he spits back and storms towards where I sit on the front steps of this picture perfect little cookie cutter house complete with its white picket fence and designer flowers arranged out front. Okay the fence is light brown and the flowers are probably not technically designer, but more often than not these neatly wrapped quaint packages are far from orderly and quaint on the inside. If they were I wouldn't have seen so damn many of them while on shift. Ah! The American dream pre packaged, Instant-a-Family _just add water_, my siblings and I used to call it. That too had been strongly impressed upon me growing up, by both my parents actually. My mom had modified the saying, "don't judge a book by it's cover." into, "the cover is just an empty shell if what's inside won't hold up together under intense scrutiny.". The woman obviously worked in law enforcement far too long.

We emerged from this perfect American dream turned American crime scene five minutes ago. I take that back. I came out five minutes ago. Not my idea. Warrick's and the homeowner's. Warrick came out three minutes later, pretending at first I didn't exist. But if Warrick were a force of nature he'd be a volcano. Long periods of inactivity separated by brief but fiery dramatic explosions. His moment of pretending I wasn't there was just the passive calm before the eruption of lava spewing everywhere.

I guess I'm doomed because there's intense seismic activity emanating from Warrick as he stands over where I sit. An adrenaline building beat passes. Now in this second beat he finally starts in.

"What the hell is that matter with you? She was a perfectly nice old lady who asked you a valid question and you pretty much told her _to her face _you didn't give a damn. Okay, maybe it's not in our job description to advise the victim's families, but a question like that Nick. That simple! You answer with a little reassurance and move on. That's all you had to do. Could you have been any more obvious about how much you could care less what she was going through?"

"Not my job man," I hear myself thinking then before I know it it's coming out of my mouth too. If the team were placing bets on things Nick Stokes was least likely to say I'm sure those four little words would have certainly been a heavy favorite. I look up at him, unwavering in my belief in its truth, and survey his expression out of mere curiosity. I honestly don't care how he reacts. I've got my own shit to deal with, he's responsible for his own internal warfare. I like the way not caring feels. I feel free, weightless in a way. Warrick is definitely not feeling the same. He's nearly trembling with irritation and he seems frozen in a killer glare down at me.

"Unbelievable! What is wrong with you Nicky? Of all the things to say you chose something like that!"

"It was the truth, wasn't it?" I ask, even though I know I'm right.

"Man, where is your head?"

"Last time I checked it was on top of my shoulders," I reply casually with a smirk. When Warrick does not find this the least bit amusing he just stands there staring down at me with his mouth hanging open. So I give him another question maybe he'll like better. He sort of has a look about him that implies if I don't distract him very soon he's going to haul off and connect his fist squarely with my head. So I pose a question, a very good question in my opinion, out to him.

"Why me? Why ask me that question? She could have asked anyone."

"That wasn't the point Nick. It didn't matter who in particular she asks, just that she was connecting with another human being who let her know it was okay and she wasn't alone. I've seen you handle a situation like that a hundred times before with a whole lot more class than you had just now."

Warrick stops himself to breath and silence builds up between us. His gaze wanders aimlessly around, taking the opportunity to slow his avalanche of emotions and let some of the rational thoughts flow through. For a moment he glances back at me and a flicker of something new flashes in his eyes like he almost has it all put together in his subconscious. He's almost there to the point of realizing that the reason I answered the way I did was because it was _my_ truth. It's just that my truth has changed without him knowing about it. Like I had switched playbooks on him when he was wasn't looking or something equally as subtle. Unfortunately, I apparently wasn't paying attention either. So we're both pretty lost.

"Don't you realize how important that answer was to her?" he questions in disbelief. He waits, silently holding out for an answer, but for some reason the best I can do is look past him and study the details of the Tahoe parked along the sidewalk. It's not that I'm not answering because I don't have an answer. I have an answer, it's just one that he won't like and I'm not very fond of myself. Telling him that it didn't really occur to me at the time how much it might mean to her is a hard enough reality for me to swallow. So I sit here, not particularly feeling like I have the energy to come up with a believable lie but unwilling to confess. It ends up the best I can offer him is a concentrated look in the eyes.

"You're seriously telling me you don't give a damn?"

"I never said that," I reply. But what I really want to say is that, "No, in fact, I don't give a damn, no I don't care, and it's scaring the living daylights out of me! Got any card tricks up your sleeve to fix that one Warrick?"

Recently my skills at sarcasm have grown by leaps and bounds.

I blow out an enormous breath and hang my head. I don't offer anything further and the only motion I offer is to put my elbows on my knees and lock my fingers together behind my neck.

I'm too tired to care and I'm not talking about not getting enough sleep kind of tired. I'm so utterly exhausted, all this investing in and focusing on others suddenly seems to have drained the reservoir of energy I must have been drawing off of all these years to connect with people. I'm just so tired and devoid of any inspiration to make the effort it takes to empathize, sympathize, explain, console, encourage, apologize, rationalize, compromise, theorize, or feel any adequate level of compassion for other human beings right at this moment.

Where along the way did it all that skill at connecting with people hightail for higher ground?

Maybe it's simple as I gave a lot and all my negative experiences piled up suffocating the life out of the more positive things. Huge asteroid size events like being accused of cold blooded murder, almost having my head blown off by a desperate murderess, being stalked, being buried alive and nearly blown up inside the same day, having to knock myself out trying to hold my own respect-wise at work, and on and on and on right down to the molecule sized experiences like the cashier at the coffee shop this morning treating me like I was a self absorbed ass because I reminded her that I only wanted light cream. She reacted like I had stomped all over her level of intelligence. Truth is I just was reading the newspaper headlines while waiting and couldn't recall if I had told her when I placed my order. I was polite about mentioning it, but nonetheless I got the coffee cup shoved at me like I better hurry and take it because I was wasting space and air of someone more deserving.

It makes it so incredibly tempting to shut down the caring department in me and call it closed for business permanently and be done be with it once and for all. In moments like these it would be so easy to let go and slide into the void.

There is still some unselfish fiber left inside me somewhere because there's a voice insisting that I don't want to fall into the abyss of desensitization. If I let it win I'm a failure. It's the easy road. A man should confront his foes head on and take them down with whatever it takes, even if it is one by one.

Maybe, that's my problem. I have no idea what it's going to take. I don't even know where to begin. I'm not sure I care enough anymore to try.

When did I become so unimpressed with human behavior? When was I disillusioned of the belief that ultimately the good in humankind, even perhaps in each individual, outweighed the bad? Or at least if it didn't outweigh the bad then there was still something positive to be found and focused upon?

I avoid having to embark on the futile search for answers by allowing my mind to march dutifully back from the brink of that empty but less taxing place. I unclasp my hands from the back of my neck and turn my gaze a little to the left where I sense that Warrick is now seated. He's trapped in a frustrated silence according to the expression on his face so I make a true attempt to connect with him if I can gather the energy.

"Why you so riled up about it anyhow?" is the best I manage. To this Warrick simply waves a gesture of dismissal at me with his hand and springs up from his seat to head towards the Tahoe. Apparently if this were a game of Hot or Cold, I'd be on fire. The instantaneous reaction gave him up. There was more to why he was so fired up about the incident.

"Give me a break Rick! What the do you want me to say?"

"I want you to say, _honestly_, you give a damn!" he states bluntly then jumps in the drivers side of the SUV and starts the engine. I'm working up the necessary energy to go join him. The very first sprinkles of the thunderstorm they said was on its way have already impacted the pavement. But for some reason even my shirt beginning to dampen doesn't expedite my progress in standing, but finally I just do it in one quick motion, like ripping off a bandaid. I pick up my kit from beside the steps and haven't made it three strides down the walkway when Warrick puts the Tahoe into drive. And then pulls away from the curb.

"You've got to be kidding me?" I mutter. Reaching the sidewalk I stop when he doesn't show any intention of waiting for me.

And he doesn't.

"No way! No freakin' way!" I state to myself and as he takes off down the street at a normal clip. I stand there, my gaze following his taillights until they disappear around the corner. After he is gone I sit down on the edge of the sidewalk, the field kit in my lap as an arm rest. I'm half tempted to put my head down on the hard silver box and stay here indefinitely. Instead I tilt my head back to the sky which now more steadily sends raindrops over me.

Funny part is I'm not really that mad at Warrick for leaving me here. Can't blame the guy, I guess. I understand the concept of enough is enough. I watch the clouds grow heavy and dark overhead. I don't care I'm getting wet. I suppose I might want to consider using my cell to call someone. Catherine would certainly zip over and give me a lift if I told her that Warrick and I just got our signals crossed and I ended up without wheels. Warrick would be subjected to some sort of motherly lecture I'm sure if she found out what really went down. Although I'm positive I'd be next in line for a very different lecture. Signals crossed, _hmmm_? I guess that's not really a lie after all. Sara would involve a little more effort on my part. First I'd have to manage to tear her away from whatever scientific endeavor she was engrossed in. Then I suspect she'd catch on that something more than signals getting crossed was going on. That would involve an endless string of questions. Grissom? I admire the man, but no way Jose. Don't need to be under a microscope anymore today thank you very much. That leaves Sanders. Greg and I in a car combined with the mood I'm in may lead to a homicide, Greg's.

Still lazily pondering my options I steal my gaze from the clouds back down to the kit in my lap. In my peripheral vision I capture a glimpse of something and decide I'm not very bright. I had to spot the letters _LVPD_ displayed on my vest for the idea to arrive in my brain that maybe I could just call PD and have them swing a radio car by to pick me up. I'm a CSI Level Three and they're uniforms I wouldn't even need to say why. But, then again, uniforms talk to other uniforms and detectives overhear and, well, detectives talk to employees of the crime lab on a frequent basis. In a matter of hours all my co workers would be asking why I required a ride from a patrol car.

Screw it.

I fold my arms over the top of the field kit, one on top of the other, and lean forward resting my chin on my left bicep. There's a puddle growing a few feet off to my left and I watch it grow, inching closer and closer to the edge of the curb where it'll run out of space to go outward in that direction. It's diameter and depth will be shaped by circumstances.

This sends my mind wandering back to the line of thought of how the events, or circumstances of my life that were out of my hands, have shaped how I came to be sitting on a curb in the rain after being ditched by my partner for my allegedly insensitivity to someone's grandmother.

A mixture of fear and sadness penetrates through me to my core.

Right at this instant I can't fathom the concept of becoming someone with a complete lack of being able to empathize with those touched by the tragedies that we encounter every day on this job. The conversation with the nice old lady comes to me with a sharp edge of regret and disappointment in myself. How could I have been so submerged into that abyss that I let the opportunity to help someone I had within my power to help go unassisted. And it had only taken me mere seconds to let her know it would take much trouble for me to care. It's torture but I let the memory replay in my mind.

"_Do you think he's in a better place now? I won't ever forget what he was like, will I?" the tiny white haired woman asked me, running her fingertips over the glass that covered the framed photo of her grandson._

"_I have no idea," I respond blandly, not looking up from sifting through the items on the desk for the young man's address book._

"_But what do you think, personally? I want to know."_

"_I'm not a shrink ma'am. I'm a criminalist. We don't do opinions. So I guess my answer would be I can't answer your question. Look in the phone book under psychiatrists. I'm sure you'll find someone there that can help you. Now if you'll pardon me, I need to get back to my work."_

As the memory recedes from the dark miserable corner it crawled out of I'm stunned that it's me in the images in my mind, but it's my face there and my voice speaking

I feel the pull of the abyss that consumes the uncaring first taunt then tempt me. Its offerings of less scars and that beautiful feeling of weightlessness would be so effortless to give into. The whoosh of car tires over the watery street frees me from the memory's lingering aftereffects. I lift my chin from my arm just as an SUV pulls up in front of me, the driver's side door at my eye level. I hear the window being lowered and direct my attention there finally. Warrick is at the steering wheel. He doesn't say anything. His expression still holds some heat, but it's not the sole emotion there. He glances down at me and waves his hand in front of his chest, directing me to come around the hood and get in the passenger seat. I sit motionless, staring at him for the span a few seconds. Part of me is surprised he came back when he knew all I had to do was dial a number on my cell. I don't have time to ponder it any more in depth because Warrick's voice comes to him suddenly.

"Get in the damn truck before I change my mind and leave you sitting in the pouring rain looking like one very pathetic stray from the nerd squad." There is no lapse between the end of him speaking and me popping up from my roadside seat, kit in hand. Now at eye level with him I take the opening to comment.

"I'm not sure I even know where to begin to defend myself against that very complex statement. But rest assured I take particular offense to the _pathetic_ and _leaving me sitting in the rain parts_."

"Nicky, get your ass in the car!" Warrick's instructs, sounding far too much like a big brother for my taste. But I comply and in a moment I am soggily settled in the passenger seat. Warrick gives me the once over up and down as I drip puddles everywhere. He shakes his head at the sight I must be. He doesn't make a verbal offering, but turns on the heat and warm air floats out the vents to every chilled piece of my body. He refocuses his attention out through the windshield and we pull back onto the road. It's about two blocks later when I finally give.

"Look, Warrick, I apologize."

"No, bro, it's cool. I might have overreacted a little," he replies hundreds of times more relaxed than during our previous discussion.

"Yeah, what was that all about, man?" I ask, trying to add a little harassing in it.

"There was just something about that sweet old lady that reminded me of my own grandmother."

"Oh man, bro, I…"

"Don't sweat it Nicky. What's goin' on with you?"

"Can't we just forgive and forget?"

"No can do."

"I'm starvin'," I comment in a sad attempt to avoid the inevitable.

"Roadies?"

"You hate that place."

"But you don't."

"You're willin' to eat there?"

"I'm willin' to bargain."

"I shoulda know. Alright. Fine. What you bringin' to the table?"

"I'll take you over there if you pay."

"Sounds fair."

Warrick let out a full laugh.

"What? What?" I ask, seriously in need of knowing why he finds this all so amusing.

"Man, no wonder you suck at cards. You have no clue when to hold 'em, when to fold 'em…"

"When to walk away and when to run?" I'm well aware he had done that deliberately to hook me in. But I can be bribed with a trip to Roadies so I won't bother to call him on this time.

Warrick laughs considerably harder and replies.

"Precisely. And while we're there you can tell me just exactly what you did with the real Nick because the guy back there sure as hell wasn't him."

"I'm gonna need some backup on that one. We might have to round up a posse 'cause I'm as in the dark as you are."

"We're CSIs from the Las Vegas crime lab. What do we need a posse for? I think we can find the real Nick Stokes if we're partnered up."

"Warrick, my man, a little quiz. What is always the first rule no matter what the case?"

"Never investigate on an empty stomach."

"Give that man a prize because we have a winner. Roadies' burger and fries here we come."

Warrick glances over and gives me an agreeing and even apologetic nod of the head as we stop for a red light.

"So what exactly did you tell her after I left the house?" I look over at him and ask, curiosity getting the best of me.

"I told her you forgot to take your medications this morning and you get kind of cranky and moderately socially challenged without them. Translation for non-grannies…you had your head up your ass."

"You did not either?"

Warrick just let out a hearty laugh, but never answered the question. I let it slide, knowing getting the real transcript of their private conversation would not be easily obtained. A comfortable but reflective quiet takes over the interior of car afterward.

Somehow that endless abyss doesn't seem so close or powerful anymore.

I guess maybe it's just that I wasn't sure I could defeat it on my own.

As we're closing in on our destination I rest my head against the passenger side window. Watching the streams of rain travel over the glass and disappear down into the darkness I let go of my wish to be weightless, to be distanced, to be free of the responsibilities of caring. I feel that wish dissolve away as it merges into the abyss. With its departure the void retreats and there is a little fresh space in my heart again for whatever else might come along in the road of my life.

_The End._


End file.
